Sorry I’m late, the cows got out.
Literally…
Shit hits the fan (well, ground) regularly on the farm, and it’s my hope that my presence in this space portrays the full, chaotic spectrum of first-time homesteading. Even if I don’t capture or share it in real-time—when faced with emergencies, it’s not the first thing that comes to my mind. But in the wakes of disasters, failures and bad luck, I learn a great deal about the land. And the animals we deal with. And our community. And most undeniably, myself.
I’m sure you’ve heard the saying “It’s not what happens to you, it’s how you react to it that matters” –Epictetus, and as tired as this is, I never really embodied these words until I moved to the land. I had experienced adversity, sure, which largely brought us to the farm in the first place. But this was of a different sort to what we were about to deal with on the farm, which requires a completely opposing form of resiliency on my part.
A way I like to think of things is that life’s challenges can be macro- and micro- (and also something in between). Losing loved ones is a macro. It’s a struggle that never goes away, we just get more tools, wisdom and strength to carry it with us. Losing cows is a micro. It’s inconvenient, time-consuming to fix, and requires immediate attention to resolve. But once it’s resolved, I don’t feel perpetually burdened by it, as I would by something more macro.
Do you see what I mean?
While I don’t actively categorise things in this way, this view does help in clarifying the realities of our hardships. For me, it brings acceptance of the hard things, and awareness of just how hard they might be. When we discover that the cows have broken loose, it sucks. But in a few hours, I know the problem will be rectified. This longevity of perspective is crucial for navigating the rollercoaster.
In the beginning, everything on the farm felt simultaneously huge yet novel. What fun it is, to drive around the property in an old 4x4 Toyota mustering escapee sheep. What a disaster it is, to momentarily lose a big investment, and try and figure out just how they got out so it won’t happen again (which, it will). I’ve lost work because of farm mishaps, calling in on the guise of ‘sickness’ just so I can go to the rural store and help rectify a malfunction or mishap.
The farm can be the full spectrum of life shrunk into one day.
There’s birth, of a lamb or a litter of puppies. There’s life, in the budding of a flower or maturation of a vegetable. There’s death, in an attacked sheep or sick cow. There’s mayhem, joy, problem-solving, triumph, failure and redemption woven into its very essence.
And when you pour many dollars, thoughts and much of your energy into it, the importance of success and the weight of failure is palpable.
Sometimes, things happen in insurmountable waves or the smallest of trickles. It can be just plain bad luck, a misjudgement on our behalf, or can be a manifestation of our inner worlds…
Are our nervous systems supported?
Have we felt well-rested?
When was the last time we had a day off everything?
What is our relationship going through right now?
Do we feel supported or connected to people? Or are we feeling isolated?
Take this week for example…
Due to an unfortunate alignment of timing, Jordan took down a section of our boundary fence while doing some maintenance, meaning that the smaller paddock the cows were in was all that was keeping them on our property. We had just bought 8 more steers for our herd, and they are still learning the ropes of our regenerative grazing system.
The cows get new grass every day, and the morning Jordan went to rotate the herd, we were down 4 head. With a call from a friendly neighbour and a quick scramble into the cars, we drove 2km down the road and slowly, painfully, encouraged them back through our front gate and onto their (fresh, reinforced) paddock.
Even though the cows haven’t escaped in over a year since we built our new fence, it brought stress onto us. The last time this happened, we had a horny bull jump the fence to mount a few of our neighbour’s prized Droughtmaster cows, adding extra friction and confrontation to our challenge. But this time, we had a friendly local help us and the escaped steers were very compliant. We took it as a win!
This time, it was a very smooth resolution, but it was confounded with other aspects of the farm. We have two sick dogs who require emergency vet visits, 5 am wakeup calls and lengthy medicine regimes. The Airbnb is still functioning, we are in the process of selling an apartment, and right now we are feeling like two very overworked farmers. It all feels like a lot right now.
But that’s right now.
We know that this too shall pass. We take each day as it comes, communicate to each other about where we are at and are honest about what needs to be done versus what we’d like to be done.
We are learning about our capacity, our limits, and are restructuring our days with more and more compassion. An hour together at the local cafe before work is a bloody treat, and we celebrate those moments with more enthusiasm than we ever did before.
The cows getting out is an annoying consequence of choosing this life, and sometimes, in the moment, we wish it was another way. But what we are gaining from this endeavour, whether it be skills, growth, realisations, money, or memories, it is immensely gratifying to be here doing this.
Together.